Twisted River

by Siobhan MacDonald

  “And this is Grace.”

  She leaned back in her seat to introduce the child beside her.

  “Hello, Grace,” he said.

  “Hi,” said the child, looking up from her crossword. She was a miniature version of her mother. Small chin, dark eyebrows.

  “Any empties?” interrupted a steward.

  Mannix watched as Joanne Collins daintily handed the steward her empty tray. She fastened the tabletop and, leaning back, rested her hands on her lap. She didn’t speak again and he was grateful for that.

  Resting his head against the window, he stared out at the shuddering wingtip. How had he ended up here? he wondered. In this life? In this job? He was lucky to have the job, he supposed. His hometown had become a wasteland, tumbleweeds rolling through the industrial parks. No one seemed to care. Politicians, government agencies, local agencies. There was nothing doing. They cared about the other cities in the country. But no one seemed to care about his. Mannix woke up most mornings with a feeling of despondency, queasily making his way through the day. He was forty-three on his next birthday at the end of August, in six months’ time. Christ! Forty-three already.

  As a teenager, he’d imagined a different life. He’d work a few months of the year and travel the rest. He’d work as an illustrator or as a photographer for National Geographic. He might teach diving in the Red Sea. Or he might even go into the casinos with his dad. He’d never thought about a wife and kids.

  Mannix sighed. Things were equally miserable on the home front. Some space apart might not hurt. He was doing his best, squeezing and contorting himself into the rigid box that was now his life. Still, it wasn’t enough for Kate. He’d seen her disappointed many times, but the anger, that cold brittle anger—that was new. In the last few months, Mannix found it hard to recognize the scorched and barren landscape of their marriage. Kate harbored vast reserves of resentment, of that he was sure. For the most part Mannix kept out of her way. And for Kate’s part, she raised no objection.

  “Have you figured out who did it yet?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Pulling his book from the sleeve in front, Mannix had settled himself for a read. He was flattening out the dog-ear.

  “Was it the spurned wife or the guy in the wheelchair?”

  Joanne Collins held up a copy of the exact same thriller.

  “Neither.” Mannix laughed at the coincidence. “My money’s on the daughter. With this guy, trust me, it’s always the least likely character.”

  “It’s pretty formulaic, all right,” she agreed.

  Joanne Collins was a tidy woman. Snug jeans, snug cotton sweater, shiny hair tied back in a ponytail. Her clothes smelled of fabric freshener. The kind that was supposed to make you think of the sea.

  “Tell me,” she said, looking straight at him, “have you ever yet read a detective series where the detective didn’t have a drink problem?”

  “Well, now, let me see . . . that depends,” Mannix considered. “Do you mean a drunk or an alcoholic?”

  “Either, I guess.” She looked surprised. “What’s the difference?”

  “That’s easy,” said Mannix. “The drunk doesn’t have to do the meetings.”

  Her head fell back as she laughed. It was a nice sound. He noticed how perfect her teeth were. Unlike his, none of them was filled.

  “I’m really sorry about your shirt,” she said again.

  “Oh, don’t worry about it.” Mannix brushed it off.

  “Work or pleasure?” he found himself asking.

  “Oh, pleasure, definitely. On a stopover on our way to Disney, isn’t that right, Grace?” Joanne rubbed the child’s hand. “Grace has been such a brave girl in hospital, so this is her treat. We’re taking some time off school. Naughty, I know . . .”

  “School can wait, you’ll have a super time,” Mannix said to the child. She seemed like a nice kid.

  “And you?” Joanne asked. “Work or pleasure?”

  “Work for me.” He pulled a face.

  Joanne laughed.

  “What is it that you do?” she asked.

  “Fuck knows,” he said quietly. “I’m trying to figure it out . . .”

  “Let me guess,” she said, “you’re an investment analyst or an accountant maybe?”

  “Jesus, no.” An accountant? He knew it. He knew the suits and ties would do that to him someday. Flipping open his wallet, he fished through the wads of plastic and business cards. He found the newly printed business cards. Mannix O’Brien, IT Business Strategy and Project Support Analyst.

  “Hold on to that,” he said to her sarcastically. “You never know when you might just need a business strategist or a project support analyst.”

  She put a thinking finger up to her chin. “Come to think of it . . .”

  “Is that your family?” Joanne Collins was looking at the laminated wallet photo of the four of them taken before last Christmas. Just before the cracks appeared. In it, they looked happy. Kate particularly so, her blond hair draping over Mannix’s shoulder where she rested her chin.

  Mannix had surprised himself. Almost without his knowing, he’d struck up a rapport with this woman.

  “She seems a good kid,” said Mannix, looking at her daughter. The child was watching a cartoon.

  “She’s great,” said Joanne. “Just great. She’s had a tough time.” She sighed. “It can be pretty rough when you’re a single parent.”

  “I’ll bet,” said Mannix.

  Out of nowhere, the plane shuddered violently. The conversation dried up instantly and his companion went silent, gripping the armrest. An announcement advised that they were entering a spot of turbulence.

  “Oh, that’s just great, just what I need,” Joanne muttered, eyes squeezed shut.

  “Mummy doesn’t like airplanes,” said Grace in a strange sort of role reversal. The child patted her mother’s hand. Suddenly, the plane lurched forward and then dropped, making his stomach flutter.

  “Ooops, that’s a bit of a drop . . .” Seeing the look on Joanne’s face, he let his hand rest on hers for comfort.

  “Planes—they’re designed to take these conditions, you know.” Mannix tried to sound reassuring, feeling none too reassured himself. A bolt of lightning cracked across the sky.

  “Oh, Jesus!”

  Joanne’s hand fluttered to the pearl sitting in the hollow of her neck. Her other hand trembled underneath his palm.

  “This is what’s supposed to happen, Mummy.” But Mummy was too petrified to reply.

  For the next fifteen minutes, as the plane bounced through air pocket after air pocket, dodging lightning forks, both Mannix and the little girl tried to distract her mother. He and Grace chattered across Joanne about all manner of ridiculous things—anything to make light of the turbulence.

  “Cabin crew, return to your seats.”

  Grace’s eyes connected with his and she stared at her stricken mother. The announcement had made Joanne go more rigid. Mannix felt her stiffen.

  “Uh-oh,” mouthed Mannix silently to Grace.

  At the next violent jolt, all three leaned back, gluing their backs into the imaginary security of their upright chairs.

  “What’s that smell?” whispered Joanne in his ear. “I smell burning.” Her head was resting against Mannix’s arm. He couldn’t smell anything except her fabric conditioner and the smell of her hair. Her breath was warm on his ear.

  “It’s nothing. You’re imagining it. There’s no smoke.”

  The plane juddered again. Squeezing his hand, Joanne opened her eyes and looked up at him. “God, what am I like? Pathetic or what? I thought that I could do this flight thing. For Grace . . .”

  “You’re doing just great.” Mannix squeezed her hand. “And you know what? I think the worst is over.”

  “God, I could murder a whiskey,”
she said.

  “If it wasn’t so bumpy, I’d get my Jameson from the locker.”

  “Thwarted at every turn.” She managed a laugh.

  “You’re good with kids,” Joanne said shakily when the flight eventually resumed an even path.

  Realizing she was feeling safer, he withdrew his hand before it became awkward.

  “Practice,” he replied. “I’ve had plenty of practice.”

  Was she attractive, Mannix wondered? He wasn’t sure. But she looked clever.

  “Want one?” Grace was leaning across her mother with a tube of fruit pastilles.

  “Any black ones in there?” he said.

  “They’re my favorites as well,” said Grace. “Hang on . . .”

  As Grace tried to extricate the lone black jelly, the tube fell apart, the jellies spraying into her mother’s lap. Embarrassed that his request had led to this mishap, Mannix reached to tidy the sweets in Joanne’s lap. Joanne looked at him with an amused expression, sensing his embarrassment. “Really, it’s okay . . .” she said in an odd replay of the coffee incident earlier.

  When the trolley service arrived with dinner, they swapped food between the three of them, and in the companionable silence that followed, Mannix dozed off and came in to land the same way he had taken off, asleep. It was seven P.M. local time.

  “How I wish I could be as relaxed as you,” said Joanne Collins. “I do hope the flight to Orlando tomorrow is okay. You don’t fancy coming and keeping us company?” There was a twinkle in her eye.

  “I wish,” he replied. He leaned over to Grace. “Give my best to Minnie Mouse.”

  “I will. I just can’t wait.”

  The child had packed up her crosswords and her coloring. And in that moment, he couldn’t help but contrast the excitement that surrounded this child with the lot of his own children. Fergus’s struggles were all too obvious. And Izzy—well, on more occasions than he liked, his eldest child appeared detached and strangely joyless.

  “Thanks for the hand to hold,” said Joanne as they were making their way out of the aircraft. She was ahead of him with Grace.

  “One should never be without a hand to hold,” said Mannix.

  “Isn’t there a song about that?” asked Joanne. “Yes—I have it, ‘May You Never’ by John Martyn.”

  “The very man,” Mannix confirmed.

  It was a song he used to sing to Kate in the early days.

  • • •

  Mannix hated staying in hotels. The blandness of this chain hotel did little to change his mind. The air in the room felt recycled and dried the inside of his nose. Just off the highway and close to the airport, it didn’t lend itself to exploration. He could see the continuous ribbon of car lights from his soundproofed window. With a little more imagination the admin staff could have put him somewhere more accessible. A car was coming for him in the morning to take him to the training course. But for now, he was trapped.

  The room was big. He supposed it was a suite. One of the queen-size beds was out of sight in the short leg of the L-shaped room and the bathroom was enormous. Mannix didn’t want to go to bed just yet. There was nothing on TV but a succession of presenters with white teeth and big hair, so he changed into a fresh shirt and headed downstairs to the bar. He ordered a Miller and sat at the counter. The lounge chairs and sofas were occupied by suits with laptops.

  The Hispanic bartender was extremely courteous. It occurred to Mannix that some of Spike’s staff could do with brushing up their hospitality skills. On second thought—with Spike’s clientele, that effort could be wasted.

  What exactly was eating Spike, he wondered? On a few occasions lately, Mannix felt that Spike was going to let him in on what was bugging him. Mannix knocked back his beer. Sometimes ignorance and deniability were safer options. But Spike was his younger brother and Mannix felt a responsibility to look out for him, though only within reason.

  Spike and Mannix had grown up in the smoky backrooms of their dad’s casino watching punters on the slot machines. And Spike could smell the victims and the vultures. The bloodsuckers waiting for those without a criminal record, like a teacher or a tradesman gambling it all, then stepping neatly in. Debts paid off for favors in return. A simple car journey to Dublin in clean number plates, an apartment to stash some gear in, a request to courier goods from one city to another. Spike had seen it all. He knew whom to talk to and whom to avoid. Spike was big and bold enough to sort things out for himself.

  If only Mannix could sort out his own life. He had sent Kate a quick text when the plane touched down in Logan. “Landed.” She came back with a curt “Ok.” Though he knew she’d be in bed, he’d intended to send a lengthier message when he got to his hotel. But the brevity of her reply had left him feeling flat. He wouldn’t bother.

  “Another?” asked the barman as Mannix finished the second Miller.

  “No, thanks.”

  Back on the fourth floor, he stopped at the vending machine. He was sure he’d wake up thirsty during the night. Gatorade would do the trick. Like a disgruntled teenager he shuffled down the corridor toward his room. Discarded room-service trays and shoe-shine machines were lined up against the walls. Looking for the key card in his wallet, he suddenly noticed his brown loafers. They were scuffed and dusty. They had seen better times. Or had they? They were his funeral shoes, his interview shoes, his work shoes. Better times? Maybe not. But they could certainly do with a shine.

  Mannix went back to the nearest shoe-shine machine. He swigged his Gatorade as he watched the brushes whir over his three-year-old shoes. The corridor was empty. Again he thought on how soulless the place was.

  A door clicked open behind him and he turned around. Someone in a bathrobe and towel turban bent to dispose of a tray. He turned back and took another swig.

  “Mannix?”

  Startled, he swung around. He stared for a second or two.

  “Joanne?”

  It was her, wasn’t it? The woman from the plane. In bare feet she looked smaller, more girlish. But the clever eyes, the small chin, those he recognized.

  “So this is where you’re staying?” Joanne looked equally surprised. She tried to secure the turban, which was in danger of toppling over. Wet hair escaped underneath.

  “Three or four doors up.” He pointed with the bottle.

  “Good Lord, what a coincidence!”

  “Yup!” He found himself grinning.

  They looked at each other a moment without saying anything, marveling at the strange turn of events.

  “Is that Gatorade? You like that stuff?” She turned her nose up.

  “Love it,” Mannix replied. Next thing, he heard himself say, “Hey, you don’t fancy that whiskey, do you? The one you wanted to murder on the plane? I have some Jameson.”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . . Grace, you know?” Joanne paused and indicated the open bedroom door. “Unless, of course, you want to come inside? Grace is sleeping. You’ll have to be quiet.”

  “Yeah, sure. Why not?”

  “All right, then.” She smiled. “I’ll just pull on a sweater. You get the whiskey.”

  If he had thought it through, he might have done things differently. But he didn’t. He didn’t think it through at all. He just reacted.

  “Got the goods,” he whispered minutes later, rounding the door to room 4166.

  Her room was exactly the same as his. He spotted Grace asleep in the second bed around the corner, the outline of her small body visible under the covers.

  “I’ll just rinse these.”

  Joanne held two tumblers, cloudy with the remains of milk. Her hair was loose but she was still in her bathrobe, and he was surprised to see she hadn’t changed into a sweater. He should have given her more time.

  Unscrewing the bottle, he followed her into the bathroom.

  “Just a small one for me,
we’ve got an early start.”

  “A small one it is,” he replied.

  He watched as she wiped the tumbler with a paper napkin and handed it to him. Then, turning to the sink again, she leaned over to wash the second tumbler. He wasn’t sure exactly how it happened but he became aware that he was staring. He stood transfixed as he watched the folds of her bathrobe slowly part. The toweling fabric gently slid over her shoulders to where it was tied at the waist.

  Wordless, he held on to the bottle and the tumbler. Joanne herself did not move but stared at him now in the mirror. At ease with her naked body, she made no attempt to cover herself. There was no hint of embarrassment.

  “Well?” she said.

  And he took it in the only way it could be meant—an invitation.

  Slowly and deliberately he put down the bottle and the tumbler on the glass shelf behind the bath.

  “What about Grace?” he asked softly, his breath now catching in his throat.

  “Grace is asleep.”

  As Joanne made to go through to the bedroom, he gently tugged at her toweling belt.

  “Wait,” he said, not wanting to be in the same room as her child.

  Firmly, he shut the bathroom door. Completely naked now, she turned to him and suddenly he realized how much he wanted her. It had been months and months. He could wait no more. The guilt could come later. He pulled his shirt over his head while she swiftly unbuckled his belt.

  Bending down to kiss her, he caught his fingers in her still damp hair. The feeling of flesh on flesh excited him. She was enjoying it too. She wanted him just as much. In the mirror, he saw her red fingernails dig into the skin of his back as he slipped himself inside her. And when he came, it was sudden. It was sudden and furious and forbidden.

  “Mummy, Mummy, where are you?” came a cry from the bedroom.

  “Jesus, she’s awake . . .” said Mannix.

  “Just a minute,” Joanne called out.

  “I’d better go,” said Mannix, his lust sated and feeling ridiculous with his pants around his ankles.

  “I think that would be best,” said Joanne.

  Covered again, she reached up on her toes to kiss him. “Thank you,” she whispered.